


The Things That Lead Us Home

by Spudato



Series: Carnage AU [3]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Carnage AU, Character Study, Gen, queer writing by a queer writer for queer readers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 17:33:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spudato/pseuds/Spudato
Summary: It’s when Cinder is stood beside the rear entrance of the Red Cliffs Restaurant that she can’t stop thinking about where she came from. It’s a Mistrali restaurant, is the thing, and the spices tickle a sense of nostalgia so deep in her brain that half her mind is in the present and the other is thirteen years in the past.Cinder's been in Vale for over a decade now, building an empire of Dust to secure her future and chase her ambitions for power. Yet her roots always call to her, hidden in the scents of blood and Mistrali cuisine.





	The Things That Lead Us Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kamooi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamooi/gifts).



> for my friend kamooi, who wanted angst. i have no idea if this fits the bill cause i just got into it and... went with it ig.

_ In Mistral, it is believed a soul is forged gradually over time, and is composed of memories, love, and emotion. _

It’s when Cinder is stood beside the rear entrance of the Red Cliffs Restaurant that she can’t stop thinking about where she came from. It’s a Mistrali restaurant, is the thing, and the spices tickle a sense of nostalgia so deep in her brain that half her mind is in the present and the other is thirteen years in the past.

Her bow is strung, and the quiver on her back is full of black arrows as slick and shiny as glass. Her outfit matches the restaurant perfectly, of that she already knows, with dark shades of red ranging from pitch black to fresh blood, and she could probably just appear as one of the many waiters inside if she really wanted. She’d scouted the place front to back, had eaten there more than once to analyse the interior, had basked in the familiarity of the tastes, and had planned every step of every second that she was going to be inside tonight. The whole restaurant's been privately booked for some sort of after-conference party, as expected, but already the clock’s ticking down, closing time coming ever closer to leave the place desolate and empty. It’s an opportunity she can’t pass up. She can’t afford to be distracted.

And yet, a little part of her soul is a thousand miles away.

_ In Mistrali, the literal translation of ‘homesick’ is, ‘my heart and soul are not with me here’. _

“We have to run,” said Cinnabar, grabbing Cinder’s arm. “We have to run, and we have to run until you’re safe.”

“What?” Cinder asked, and then asked again, impatiently, when the Faunus ignored her question to favour pulling her along instead, her arm caught in a bronzed grip. “Why? What’s happened?”

Not much happened in Mistral in plain daylight. Danger came with the night, when an obscured moon brought with it nothing but uncertainty, yet it was the noon sun that beat down on them as Cinnabar guided Cinder though the dense crowds that filled narrow streets that were walled by rickety housing. He kept looking around like he was expecting someone to spot them both, pushing Cinder into the shade of an alleyway when he caught something out of the ordinary. It wasn’t unusual to have to hide; Cinder and her friends had made a game of it, hiding away when they spotted one of many enemies that prowled the streets. Yet this time Cinnabar was sweating, bright hazel eyes scanning the streets feverishly, dragging Cinder out of cover once the way was clear.

“We have to run,” he repeated once more, almost knocking a vendor to the ground in his haste. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

“But  _ why?!” _ Cinder demanded, Semblance flaring and making Cinnabar wince where he was touching bare skin. “What’s going on?”

Cinnarbar glanced back, slowing his run and pulling Cinder to the side of the road where less people were congesting the way. A stall across the side of the street was frying buns, someone in a window above airing out fresh laundry, a Hunter walking by carrying a bottle of whiskey despite already stinking of it, and as Cinnabar knelt down in front of Cinder to put his hands on her shoulders, she was aware of the tang of sweat, the undertones of dirt and blood.

“Cinder, your mother is dead.”

_ In Mistrali, the traditional goodbye that is said at a funeral translates to, ‘please watch over me, please be proud of me, please protect me, forevermore’. _

Cinder doesn’t have to kill even half the people in the kitchen, which is nice. She kills one right as she enters the door to make a statement, shoots the second chef that tries to scream, and when she cocks her head towards the door most of them file out with pale faces and wide eyes. One of the younger ones tries to make a run for the door into the restaurant proper but he hits the ground before he’s even taken two steps, an arrow lodged in the back of his neck and out of his throat. The spray of red blood on the white tiles is most wonderfully artistic, but Cinder doesn’t even take a second to admire it before she recovers her arrows, wet and warm and quick to be notched once more. The kitchen is empty. She now only has minutes to finish the job.

Breathing slow, Cinder nudges the door open into a red carpeted room, the walls dark and decorated with shards of glass that send spotlights every which way the light hits. Chandeliers hang from above, artificial candles powered by red Dust letting off the barest hint of smoke, and almost all the dark wood tables are vacated, tall-backed chairs lined with crimson velvet and detailed in gold and silver. Broad leaved plants stand atop stone pedestals underneath thick curtains that hang off brass curtain poles, and paintings - some worth their weight in gold, some merely copies - hang perfectly aligned above. It’s beautiful and expensive and everything Cinder’s Dust-dealing competitors love in their gathering place of choice.

Shame tonight won’t go their way.

There’s a deep, bellowing laugh that comes from near the back of the restaurant and to the left of the kitchen, and Cinder lowers herself down, scanning the empty room. The two bay windows at the front have the curtains drawn, all the chairs tucked under the tables and the menus untouched, ready for the next day of business. Nobody can see in, and the back is already secure. So, taking another breath, Cinder follows the wall of the kitchen, dodging around the till to come face to face with an inset wall made of the same thick satin as the curtains that hang along the walls, bolted from floor to ceiling with a single loose curtain in the center to permit entry, a strip of black in a sea of burgundy and wine. Inside there’s a clink of glasses and a low bubbling of conversation, ice being poured into drinks and music playing quietly on speakers. Cinder ducks against the curtain when someone steps out; one of the waiters in a black suited uniform. They don’t spot Cinder and they certainly don’t hear the arrow that catches them in the back of the chest, and they fall against plush carpet with nary a sound. 

There’s the smell of a dish Cinder can recall from a thousand years ago that wafts through when the curtain comes to a stop, and as she moves closer to the entrance she can hear the moving of plates, a sinus-clearing spiciness to the air that she can taste on the back of her tongue.

_ Mistrali has many words for things that are homemade. They even have a single word for ‘food that reminds me of my family’. _

“You’re moving? Why?”

Cinder didn’t have a real reply, not really. The Faunus kids she’d grown up with on the streets of her hometown felt like they’d been beside her since she could toddle, but she didn’t have a choice. Where her mother went, so did she, and it was often non-negotiable.

“‘Cause bad guys wanna kill my mama,” Cinder said simply. It was the honest truth, as far she knew it. “We’ve gotta hide away.”

“Really?! Woah!”

Being young meant knowing a lot of things and not really understanding them. Everyone knew Cinder’s mother because Cinder’s mother was simply everywhere, working with everyone’s parents and working her fingers into every pie. Yet none had really understood the scope of the danger, especially when her line of work created so many enemies to look out for, and was the reason knives were regularly carried in bags and guns were hidden in the waistbands of trousers.

“Yup,” Cinder confirmed with a nod, sat atop some old crate that someone had emptied and left to rot on the street, the other kids looking up to her like she was some sort of storyteller. In some ways, she kind of was. “So we’re gonna go away for a bit until it’s safe again.”

Some of the Faunus - mostly the older boys - looked fascinated, eyes shining bright with wonder, whilst a few of the younger ones looked distressed. They’d all been friends for years, Cinder guiding them both in and out of trouble all day long, the soles of their feet blackened from dust and dirt by the end of each sunset. Yet, Cinder had known she’d have to be prepared to leave any any moment; her mother had always ensured that spare bags were packed and supplies kept close to hand if they had to take flight before anyone noticed.

“Will we see you again?” Cerise -- the youngest of their little group -- asked, big brown eyes wide and wet, tiny nubs of antlers starting to grow on the crown of her head. “Ever?”

Cinder shrugged. “I dunno. If it gets safe again, probably.”

And then, quiet. To the young, a day could feel like as though it were a week, and the concept of ‘forever’ went on for a long, long time. Cerise looked down at her feet as her older brother pat her shoulder, but Cinder wasn’t particularly sad. She’d miss this lazy seaside town for sure, running on and off of docked ships, taking the risk of being shipped far from home, dodging and ducking under people’s legs on a busy day.

But where Cinder’s mother went, Cinder would follow.

“We’ll have to go and have fried buns,” declared Roan, white-tipped fox ears twitching in the salty breeze. “So you’ll always remember us by them! That’s what my pa always said to do when someone’s leavin’.”

There was a resounding cheer of agreement, and Cinder grinned, hopping off the box and smoothing out her leggings. Cerise was quick to hug around her waist, Roan ruffling short black hair, and the group moved off down towards the docks, jumping and laughing and whooping all the while.

_ Ancient Mistrali custom says those who are unafraid of fire, or who have a gift for wielding it, always forecast danger to those around them. _

Three notched arrows fly when Cinder dives through the curtain, piercing one grey-suited executive through the eye, a second diner in the chest, and catching one of the waiters in the ribs. At least two people scream, a third faints as a fourth falls backwards off his chair, and a bartender stood behind the private bar ducks out of sight. At the head of the table sits a balding older man in a deep maroon suit, almost blending in with his surroundings had his skin not boasted the pale tones of Atlesian heritage, and he stares at Cinder with shock etched into his face. They’ve only had the pleasure of meeting once before. That was the meeting that made Cinder decide to kill him.

Two bodyguards in the corners try and close in on Cinder, one with a blunt-nosed pistol and the other with a lengthy Dust-barrelled knife, and Cinder’s bow breaks into two glossy black swords, the bowstring snapping apart as she blocks the knife that’s swung down towards her neck, kicking that bodyguard back before rolling to her left to dodge a bullet that nearly deafens her.  One of the guests falls off his chair in his haste to get away from her, but Cinder stands and turns to duck beneath the outstretched arm that holds the gun, closing the distance in an instant to sink her right sword deep into his gut. What little Aura he has sputters and dies in an instant, not practised enough to be able to throw it up in a split-second, and he spits blood that dribbles down his chin in dark streaks. Pushing him back to fall against the wall, the sword still embedded and his blood barely visible against deep red walls, Cinder grabs his gun from his limp hands and puts one round into his chest before turning on the other, deflecting a thrown knife that penetrates right through the mahogany table before two rounds put him down too, dark suit wet with blood.

There’s the click of another gun being cocked, and Cinder turns to see the red-suited man standing, a black pistol the same calibre as the one in her own hand clasped in two shaking fists.

“Y-you should p-put that gun down. Right now,” he stammers out, and Cinder finds that hilarious. He’s never had to do a day of wetwork in his life.

“Ah, Smalt. I was surprised to not get an invite to this little…” Cinder waves the gun at the room, making most of the surviving guests cower. “ _ Shindig. _ You should know I love Mistrali cuisine.”

Smalt looked her up and down, pale blue eyes glancing at the dead bodies before looking back to her. “Why are y-you here? What do you want?”

Twirling the other blade, Cinder grins, and when she speaks it’s tinged with smoke that’s smouldering deep in her lungs. “Nothing you can give, save for your life and your empire.”

_ The Mistrali language has several different words and phrases for many types of love. The term for a mother’s love can be translated to, ‘she who would move mountains for you’. _

“You,” Cinder’s mother started, holding her daughter atop her knee. “Are named Cinder, because you are my little flame. You are what keeps a fire alive.”

In the palm of an olive-skinned hand erupted a tiny spark, barely bigger than candlelight, and yet Cinder was enraptured, the yellow hue reflected in glowing golden eyes.

“So long as this keeps burning, so long as you are here, I will always protect you.” Kissing Cinder atop her head of charcoal hair, all the tiny cowlicks like wisps of smoke, she smiled, Cinder’s little hands reaching for her own and heedless of the heat. “And I hope you always know that whatever I do, I do it for you.”

“Mama?” Cinder asked, and her mother pulled back to see her rounded face, her bright eyes, the way her mouth moved, unpractised, around looping Mistrali syllables. “Mama?”

“Yes, little one?”

Cinder didn’t say anything back, of course, because she was a little too young to string together much more than that. It didn’t matter. Cinder’s mother kissed her on the head again and held her. She held her for a very long time.

_ The people of Mistral consider a mother’s love to be a guiding hand, and the loss of a mother the cause for revenge. _

The food tastes just the way her mother made it, Cinder thinks.

Smalt is bleeding out on the floor, his heart sliced in two in his chest and the rest of his guests killed where they’d grovelled. The bartender had left and she’d let them, instead rounding the table to sample the uncontaminated dishes. One is of astonishingly poor quality, missing half the flavours Cinder expects to find, but the rest are sublime, especially when she tries a spicy orange broth that makes her feel ten years old all over again, reminding her of those dirt-paved roads and halcyon days under the hot southern sun. She’d offer the chef her compliments if she hadn’t killed three and chased the rest away, but she’s sure they already know. This restaurant wouldn’t have been so highly reviewed if the food had been subpar, that one dish notwithstanding.

From outside the building comes a siren, the grind of rubber wheels against tarmac, so Cinder drops the spoon back into the bowl, pulling one sword from a discarded body on the ground before stepping over Smalt and heading for the fire exit hidden behind another curtain. A final glance at the room, and Cinder finds it funny that there’s so much red she can’t tell if everyone’s dead or plain asleep.

She pushes the bar on the door and it swings open without a sound, the cool night air a blessing, and Cinder slips out like a shadow.

Vale will fall long before the police find her for this.

_ The concept of ‘destiny’ is integral in Mistrali culture. It is said that the moment a child opens their eyes for the first time, all major events in their life are predestined. _

_ And irreversible. _


End file.
